


we adorn our graves with dead men

by shilu_ette



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Ryoma is a bit too young to be ruling over the world, oh well, so is Keigo, war and politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilu_ette/pseuds/shilu_ette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryoma is second in line to the throne and ambassador to the Eastern Lands. Keigo is a bastard brother to the King and ordained to become a Cardinal in England. They both must fight for their thrones when all goes astray; they must forge alliances that are unseemly. Above all, they must choose between their ambitions and their legacies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we adorn our graves with dead men

**Author's Note:**

> Because I just saw the Attack of Titans and reread War and Peace within a month of each other, I wanted something grandiose in scale and started something that I am already regretting. OH WELL 'TIS LIFE. At least I can dress up Ryoma and Keigo in everything posh and medieval and make them have legitimate reasons to panic over. WOW YOU GUYS IT'S NOT JUST TENNIS YOU HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT NOW!! I MADE YOU TWO INTO LEGITIMATE KINGS!!!! Or maybe I just need to lie down and think small, furry thoughts.

_Be careful_ , he murmurs to the boy before they depart ashore. He folds his duvet and re-stiffens his collars, shakes invisible dust out of his breeches. He glares at a straying wisp of hair from the boy’s crown, berating it to be so rebellious even on such a momentous occasion. The boy turns to him, alight with mirth, his hazel doe eyes sparkling. Behind them, there goes the cheering crowds, the flying banners, the festivities he would not miss. His prince is too gay in this momentous occasion, his smirk constantly playing at his lips as he appraises the ship’s mast like a greedy child.

“Worry?” He echoes, cocking his head. He laughs, he waves, mocking. “Worry for what, Gen?”

 _It is not for fun that we head off to that damned island, my Lord_ , he wants to say, but all he does is tip his head and watch as they see off the wind and set sail to tumbling waves and impending fog. The boy watches the furthering horizon, his eyes alight.

Already, the ship is bustling. Sailors heave the ropes and bellow out their commands, younger boys scuttle down the cellars as courtiers stagger under their wigs and pucker their lips at the dewy mist. Servants hurry about with crests, his lord’s finery stacked inside oak cases matted with silk, presents for their host, and a trifle of others.

“What do you think the English King would be like?” The boy struts up the deck and perch on the feeble railings; he waits for a reply.

“Well-learned,” he answers, cautious, “Fluent in French and Latin, well-versed in Spanish. Pious.” He does not add, _that Highness will not have long to live. He is frail and rotting around the bones. They say he reigns with shaking hands and watery eyes. The other boy, insolent bastard, they call him, would soon take the throne and make his subjects call him his Majesty. Fool he would be, and you’d be best to play him cautious. Be careful, my Lord._

But he does not say those things. He only adds, “He will bore you, I daresay.”

The boy laughs. He has yet to learn his manners yet; has yet to fold his hands and smile a secret smile. When he smiles, it is merely in jest, and when he smirks it is in full disdain. And yet when he laughs, he holds the entire court and ship at bay, awaiting his raw words, his childlike cruelness and frankness.

“He may die soon,” the boy says now, imprudently, “Ryoga said to look out for that other prince. He didn’t seem to like the portrait they sent over.”

“His lord Ryoga is a fool,” he says back, before he frowns and leans straight, his fingers folded. “To predict another king’s death is still treason in their lands, barbaric as they may be.”

Golden eyes appraise him. There is still that smirk. “And are they?” the boy asks.

He stiffens. The wind is chilly. He wishes his lord would feign tiredness so they may all retire to the cabin, where it must be warm. The servants would have tended to their rooms along with supper. “They are…lowly, my lord,” he answer back, careful and wary, “But they are also dangerous. Which is why I beg you caution. What they lack in manners they make up with their wars.”

“Are we to finance their wars then?” And here his lord laughs, a thin chuckle escaping him, his sable already crooked from the wind. He does not count this as a bad omen. “How boring. I thought I would have been sent for something better.”

He does not answer, his sigh enough to show his disapproval at his lord’s indolence. “We should return to the cabins, my lord,” he says instead, now a bit pointedly.

His master, boy he is of twelve, has learned many virtues. Caution was not one of them.


End file.
